UNCLE 



A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 



/ 
By Henry J. Byron 

^"^^ ^ of ''Our "Boys/' ''Uncle ^ck'$ "Darling/' ''War to 

the Knife," etc. 




PHILADELPHIA 

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

i S> O 2 



t 



CHAL.^CTK'RS 



Ur>"^-c BooTL"., . , . . 
Paul 1 eaumont (his neplv 
Fetkr !?letcher (h's best 
Pur FIN (a Pastrycook's li-^i 11 ). . . 

IdRS. BeaUMO! . ; . 

^^■MILY MONTROSF; . . 

Sarah Jane (a Mai^.^:-'' d.ii yVork), 



. . Mr. E. Royce 
Mr. Edward Terry 
Mr. J. H. Barnes 
. . Mr. Crutwell 
. . Miss E. Muir 
Miss Eveleen Rayne 
. . . Miss Amalia 



"'CENE 
Beaumorit's Cottage at Sydenham 



There is no interval between Acts I and II, and a vei 
short one between Acts II ana HI. 



M. 






UNCLE 



Act I 



ScE^Y.— Prettily fufuished drawing-room or living-room in 
a cottage or nee a little way out of town. Doors r. a?id v.. 
\Vi?idow L. c. Chimney piece r. <?r r. c. French windows 
leading down to garden— the room supposed to be first 
floor. 

After rise of curtain and slight pause, then Sarah, the 
servant maid, rather showily dressed, hut in bad taste, 
enters r, d. 

Sarah. I'm going, mum. {Pause) I say I'm going, mum. 
{Pause) Missis hears sharp enough when you don't want 
her to. If one has a few minutes' chat with the baker, or 
waits at the gate whilst the young man from the grocer's 
pays one a few innocent comphments, she bursts on one 
hke a thunder-storm. Fact is, I daresay she finds some 
difficulty in getting my month's money together, for these 
Beaumontses ain't over-burdened, / know. I've heard one 
or two of their squabbles about money. They say walls 
haves ears, but what's better they haves doo7^s, and them 
doors liaves key-holes, or we poor servants would often 
find our characters took away behind our backs and never 
know it. Hem! {Loud) Vm going, m\xm. 

Enter Beaumont. 

Beaumont. Going, mum ! You're going it. What's the 
matter. Sarah ! That's if you are Sarah. Upon my word, 
you domestics dress in such a fashion nowadays it's difficult 
to tell you from your mistresses. 

Sarah. Yes, sir. There's no law, I beheve, to stand in 
the way of us servants wearing what we can pay for. 

Beaumont. None that I'm aware of. I'm an advocate 
for letting people do as they please myself. 

Sarah"^ That's what I always say— it's not the masters, 
it's the missises as does it. 

Beaumont. As does what, Sarah ? 

5 



6 UNCLE 

Sarah. Oh ! sir, as does everything. As won't let a 
young woman keep her place if she happens to be good- 
looking. 

Beaumont. Ha! that's where you're wrong; it's when 

• she's good-looking she won't keep her place herself. Have 

you suffered from that injustice, Sarah ? 

H4^>^ ^ Sarah. Oh ! sir, it's not for me to tribute motives to no 

one, but missis is like the rest, I suppose. Missis says it's 

my insolence as parts us, but that's rubbish ! 

Beaumont, {aside) Weil, I'm sorry the girl's going. She 
has a temper, but I'm afraid Teresina does try it. Teresina 
tries mine sometimes ; she's the dearest little woman, but 
prone to suspicion, is Teresina. 

E?der Mrs. Beaumont. 

Mrs. B. {aside) Why is Paul talking to Sarah .=* {To 
Beaumont) I think when you know that young woman has 
been grossly insolent to me, and is now being packed off at 
a moment's notice, you might .show me some respect by not 
noticing her. {Goes to Sarah with mojiey.) 

Beaumont, {aside) I didn't know anything about it. I 
know the girl's only been here a couple of months or so, 
and seemed willing enough, with a fair notion of cooking, 
too. I suppose for the next week or so it'll be the old 
story — chops and a charwoman. They may well call her a 
char^ovs\2iXi, for she cooks 'em to cinders. 

Mrs. B. {to Sarah) There's your money — count it. 

Sarah. No needs to do that, mum ; / can trust you. 
{Opens a?i elaborate porte-monnaie) 

Mrs. B. {aside to Beaumont) The ide-a! Only look — 
fancy a servant with a porte-monnaie like that. 

Beaumont. Well, my love, it's not my fault. 

Mrs. B. No. But 1 wonder how she could have got it. 
( To Sarah) There's nothing more. 

Sarah. No, mum, there ain't. Which wishing you both 
a good morning. I will take die liberty of sending my 
Cousing Haugusttus for my box early in the hevenink. 
{Exit) 

Mrs. Beaumont turns. Beaumont and she face to face. 

Mrs. B. Well, Paul. 

Beaumont. Well, my love. 

Mrs. B, " Well, my love " ! Is that all you've got to say .'* 
A servant insults your wife, is turned away on the instant, 
and all you can say is, " Well, my love." 



UNCLE 7 

Beaumont. Since you i;ut. it in that light, Teresina, 1 
will add— what are wa going to do now? 

Mrs. B. Well, Mrs. Grubbins will— 

Beaumont. Have we got to fall back on old Mother 
Grubbin.s again ? 

Mrs. B. a most respectable woman, Paul. She's not the 
cook she might be. 

Beaumont. No, she Lmt. There's one thing that's eco- 
nomical about her culinary arrangements, however ; we save 
something in pepper. 

Mrs. B. How so ? 

Beaumont. Because, my love, she substitutes snuff. The 
powder is equally pungent, and she purchases it herself. I 
prefer pepper, myself, but tastes differ. 

Mrs B. Ah ! you always were partial to Sarah. 

Beaumont. I prefer Sarah to snuff, certainly. 

Mrs. B. There'll be no dithculty in supplying her place. 
You've only got to atlvertise for a week or so. 

Beaumont. Yes. But you see spare cash is rather con- 
spicuous by its absence just now. Uncle Bootle's la.st re- 
mittance has miscarried — ;ir possibly he has heard we're — 
Oh ! no, no, don't let me think of anything so horrible as tliat ! 

Mrs. B. What do you mean ? 

Be.\umont. Never mind. Nothing much. Only, that if 
ever the fatal fact that I have married should — 

Mrs. B /v?/*^/ fact, indeed! 

Beau.mont No, no, don't catch up one's words. Don't 
let's quarrel, Teresina, there's a love. I'm bothered out of 
my life as it is. 

Mrs. B. I never want to quarrel — you always begin it. 

Beaumont. Very well, little woman, then let's have a di- 
vision of labor that shall at once be fair and satisfactory. 
/'// always begin the quarrels, yon shall always end them. 
Now, let's sit down and look matters in the face. There. 
{They sit, good ft ie?ids) Do you know that the prospect is 
anything but agreeable ? 

i\lRS. B That's very polite, sir, considering you're look- 
ing at me 

Beaumont No, no. You see I can't expect to get any 
business unless I — a — I shoiv myself. Unless I mix a bit 
amongst people who can help me, and who would, too. 

Mrs. B. Unless you join a club, you mean. Unless you 
are always away from home, leaving me here alone with 
Mrs. Grubbins. 

Beaumont. There you touch me, Teresina. /shouldn't 
like to be left alone with her. 



8 UNCLE 

Mrs. B. Then you would be always receiving invita- 
tions — going out to dinners and suppers, and goodness 
knows where. If your success simply depends on mixing 
with a parcel of selfish men, most of them bachelors — 

Beaumont. Ah! there you're quite mistaken. They are 
not, as a rule, bachelors. 

Mrs. B. Then they're bad men w-ho don't appreciate their 
homes. 

Beaumont. There's no arguing w'ith you. 

Mrs. B. Of course, you regret your freedom. 

Beaumont. No, but I should like, if I can't see any of my 
old friends at my old haunts — 

Mrs. B. {in temper) Oh ! go to your old aunt's, though I 
never knew^ you had any. 

Beaumont. "//(22^;//^," Teresina, dear, not " rt-^/^z/ 'i"." As 
I w^as saying, if I can't see them in toum, I should like some 
of them — one or two of them, say — to see what a nice little 
home I've got. — w^hat a nice little wife. 

Mrs. B. You've told me all about your bachelor friends. 
There's only one I should ever care to see here — mind you, 
I don't say I should care to see him, but I should say your 
friend Fletcher was rather more endurable than the others. 

Beaumont. Eh ! Oh ! yes. {Aside) Now that's most re- 
markable. With a depth worthy of Plymouth Sound I wrote 
to Fletcher privately suggesting he should drop in by acci- 
dent, and — now that's one of these extraordinary — it's be- 
cause I've always been cracking Fletcher up to her. Hem ! 
Without having ever seeji Fletcher she evidendy takes an 
interest in Fletcher. 

Mrs. B. You have always described him as such a very 
charming person. 

Beaumont, {airily) Have I ? Oh ! ah ! well, as to that, 
you know, friends are partial. 

Mrs. B. He's very handsome, isn't he? 

Beaumont. Oh ! he'd pass in a crowd. 

Mrs. B. Why, you said he was a perfect Apollo Belvi- 
dere. 

Beaumont. Did I ? Well, I never saw Apollo. I've been 
to Belvidere, and don't care about it. 

Mrs. B. And you said his manners were so fascinating. 

Beaumont, {aside) Confound 'em, so they are. 

Mrs. B. Altogether a dangerous sort of person, I should 
say. {Goes up.) 

Beaumont, {aside) He won't come. A fellow like Fletcher 
has something better to do than waste his time (Fletcher 
^ters ; neither see him) in a slow place like this. Good 



UNCLE 9 

looking-^well— a— yes — probably, but I don't think there's 
anything particularly striking about him. 

Fletcher brings his hand well down on Beaumont's back. 

Fletcher. I say, old boy, it's delightful to find such rural 
simplicity so near to town. Don't even close your front door. 
Yours was wide open. 

Mrs. B. {aside) It's that Sarah. The sort of young 
woman who would leave and not shut the door. — Who is 
this gentleman ? 

Beaumont. Well, this is a surprise. ( Winks aside to 
Fletcher.) I say a surprise. — He — hem ! 

Fletcher. Eh, but you wrote that you wished — 

Beaumont. Hush ! You don't quite — {whispers) — 

Mrs. B. {at back) What's the matter ? I suppose it's one 
of Paul's creditors. I wonder if it's the landlord. I know 
he's intending to call. 

Beaumont. Ha — oh ! Teresina dear. Ha ! ha ! talk of 

{awkwardly) — of the d beg your pardon — I mean — . 

Ha! ha! actually here is Fletcher. My wife — Fletcher, 
the original of the photograph. 

Fletcher. Which miserable attempt — I won't call it a 
work of art — did no justice whatever to the original', Mrs. 
Beaumont. You should really bring an action against the 
photographer and " subpoena " the sun as an accomplice. 

Fletcher arid Mrs. Beaumont talk aside. 

Beaumont, {aside) He's quite at home already. Always 
was. Sort of fellow who can hob and nob with a coal-heaver 
or hold his own with a cabinet minister. {To hivi) Well, 
Fletcher, this is quite a surprise. 

Fletcher. Yes. I knew you hung out somewhere in 
this district, and as I had nothing to do for a day or two I 
set out to hunt you down, run you to earth, in fact, Mrs. 
Beaumont, to find out where he was concealing himself 

Mrs. B. Oh! he prefers this rustic seclusion, don't you, 
Paul ? 

Beaumont. A — yes — I like seclusion. You've no notion, 
Fletcher, what nice walks we have. 

Fletcher. Ah. 

Beaumont. Never meet a soul. 

Fletcher. That is secluded. 

Beaumont. And we're never bored with excursionists, 
or Good Templars, or Odd Fellows, or anything of that 
kind. 

Fletcher. Rather rollicking altogether, then ? 



lO UNCLE 

Beaumont, {gloomily) Quite so. 

Fletcher. And you're contented here ? 

Mrs. B. Why should he not be ? 

Fletcher. On tlie contrary, there is every reason why 
he should be as happy as the days are long. 

Beaumont, {aside) And they are long. {Sighs.) Deuced 
long. 

Fletcher. Well, now, you know, Mrs. Beaumont, I'm 
simply astonished at all this. 

Mrs. B. Indeed, Mr. Fletcher. 

Before this all seated. 

Fletcher. To see old Paul here settled down into a 
regular married man — a prize Benedick — a model husband. 
Paul, who was as wild a fellow in his way as any young 
fellow of his time. 

Beaumont, {aside) He-hem ! 

Mrs, B. Was he though, Mr. Fletcher ? 

Fletcher. You should have seen him. Such a fellow 
to waltz — all night — such a fellow to flirt. 

Mrs. B= {becoming annoyed) W'^j' he though ? Hem! 

Fletcher. Ha! ha! All the women were mad after 
him. 

Mrs. B. Indeed. Mad, were they ? 

Beaumont, {aside) Fletcher means well, but he's making 
it hot for me. 

F'letcher. I say, Paul, old man, do you remember Tilly 
Trotter and the picnic at Lynton Wood ? 

Beaumont, {pith petulance) No, I don't, and I don't want 
to. 

Fletcher. You wouldn't recognize the man of those 
days in the sober and demure party of the present, Mrs. 
Beaumont. 

Mrs. B. I've no doubt of that. {Aside) " Tilly Trotter !" 
I'll " Tilly Trotter " him, by-and-by. {Goes ?(/>.) 

BEAur^iONT. {brings Fletcher down) I say, my dear 
fellow, surely you can see with half an eye — 

Fletcher. No, I can't, nor you either. What do you 
mean ? 

Beaumont. Let a fellow finish, please. Surely you can 
see with two eyes, we'll sa}', of which two eyes, by the way, 
you are absurdly conceited. 

Fletcher. (z£/zV/z a grin) I own it, I own it, dear boy. 

Beaumont. That you're adding to the jealousy and sus- 
picion which are already characteristics of my wife. 

Fletcher. No ! 



UNCLE IX 

Beaumont. Yes. 

Fletcher. I didn't mean it. 

Beaumont. But you've do7ie it. 

Fletcher. Then I'll undo it. 

Beaumont, {aside) We've got a good excuse in being 
without a servant, for his not being asked to stop. But 
he's one of those fellows wlio'd rather prefer making his 
own bed ; yes, and cooking the dinner, too. 

Goes up ; Mrs. Beau.moxt and Fletcher come down. 

Fletcher. I assure you that was all exaggeration. 
But I like to chaff old Paul on what were never his weak 
points, because he pretends to think they wei^c. 

Mrs. B. ^Then he wasn't much of a waltzer? 

Fletcher. One round always finisiied him. 

Mrs. B. Ha ! ha ! How good ! I can see him. 

Fletcher. And \\\'S flirtation was of so mild a nature 
that his friends used to watch him in entranced admiration, 
in which pity and contempt struggled for the mastery, and 
invariably ran a dead heat. 

Mrs. B. {deligtited) Of course — that's what /always found 
it. ( TJiey sit aside) 

Beaumont, {who has overheard t/iis) I think of the two I 
should rather prefer my previous description. 

Mrs. B. And how do you like our little place, Mr. 
Fletcher ? 

Fletcher. I think it's charming. 

Mrs. B. Wouldn't you think it dull, if you lived here ? 
' Fletcher. Not if I were Beaumont. 

Mrs. B. I'm afraid you're a very terrible person. 

Beaumont, {aside) So am I. 

Fletcher. I love quiet. 

Beaumont, {aside) Does he ! The rackettyest dog in 
England. 

Fletcher. I could stay at a place like this for — oh ! for 
ever so long. 

Beaumont, {aside) Not if I know it, Fletcher. Not if I 
know it. 

Mrs. B. There are some charming little villas — quiet 
little bachelor's boxes, in the neighborhood. I should say 
one of them would suit a person like you, if you are so 
fond of quiet, and, oh ! dear ! it would be relief to have a 
little genial society. 

Beaumont. He — hem ! Ain't / a relief. Teresina, my 
dear ? You'll make Fletcher think we're altogether out of 
the world. 



12 UNCLE 

Mrs. B. So we are. 

Fletcher. I suppose it*s very healthy here ? 

Beaumont, {hastily) Not a bit of it. Notoriously the 
other way. 

Fletcher. Why on earth do you live here ? 

Beaumont. Why ? You know it was necessary that I 
should hide my wife. I mean in its sea^etive, not its phys- 
ical sense, of course. I married without Uncle Bootle's 
knowledge. Uncle Bootle is my sole resource. He allows 
me a small income, he has provided for me in his will ; he 
is old, bedridden, and abroad — 

Fletcher. Thafs a model uncle, if you like. 

Mrs. B. Yes, but isn't it dreadful to be hidden away 
like — like — 

Fletcher. A treasure. 

Beaumont, {rises and moves aside) He — hem! I don't 
think your interpretation in the best taste. I was explain- 
ing. 

Fletcher. Very sorr}^ — I'm mum. 

Beaumont, {with dig?iity) Thank you, Fletcher — a — 
where was I ? 

Fletcher. On the sofa. 

Beaumont. Hem ! Thank you, Fletcher. {Sits) Uncle 
Bootle was jilted by my mother, his brother married her 
under his nose. 

Fletcher. " Married her under his nose " ? Then I 
suppose old Booties a very tall party, 

Mrs. B. Ha! Ha! Ha! 

Beaumont. Fletcher, your interruption is at once ridic- 
ulous and ill-timed. Your laughter, Teresina, is unfeeling. 
Uncle Bootle — who has never seen me since a baby — has 
for years allowed me a small annual sum. 

Fletcher. Ah, that's because he's never seen you. 

Beaumont. With the proviso that it should cease on 
my committing matrimony. I have committed matrimony. 

Fletcher. How long is the charitable old lunatic going 
to last ? Do you give him a year ? 

Beaumont. I'd give him seven if I was trying him. 

Fletcher. Well, all you've got to do is to make your- 
selves as jolly as you can under the circumstances — no- 
body'll ever inform your uncle of your marriage, and — 

Beaumont, {shakes hand) Thank you, Fletcher, thank 
you, Peter, You alone know my condition. It's a pity you 
can't stay this evening. 

Fletcher. Who said I couldn't stay ? 

Mrs. B. Why, Paul, you've been all along wishing for 



UNCLE . 13 

Mr. Fletcher to come here. I assure you, Mr. Fletcher, I 
heard so much about you that I was becoming quite 
jealous. 

Fletcher. Jealousy, I'm sure, never entered into your 
disposition. 

BEAUMOxr. {aside) That's quite true, for it was born 
with it. 

Mrs. B. Well, I do think a jealous wife makes herself 
exceedingly ridiculous. 

Beaumont. Hear ! hear ! 

Fletcher. Yes, and a jealous husband is simply a 
nuisance. 

Beaumont. But jealousy is more pardonable on the 
male side. 

Mrs. B. I don't see that at all. 

Beaumont. Teresina, my love, Caesar's wife should be — 

Fletcher. Tliat was a very good argument from 
Caesar's point of view. I should liked to have heard Mrs. 
C.'s opinion on the subject But about my not staying, 
Paul. I feel jolly here. Don't cold-shoulder a poor fellow. 

Beaumont. Unfortunately — most unfortunately — Mrs. 
Beaumont and the servant have fallen out. 

Fletcher. Didn't hurt themselves, I hope. 

Beaumont, {loiid/y) 1 didn't mean out of window, Peter 
Fletcher. To come to the point, we're without a servant. 

Fletcher. All the better. That's why the kind offices 
of a friend who can cook like Francatelli, and — 

Mrs. B. Besides, Mrs. Grubbins — a most worthy woman, 
Mr. Fletcher — is coming by-and-by. And though there's 
nothing in the house — 

Beaumont, {quickly) There you are — there's nothing in 
the house. Can't ask a man to stay when there's nothing 
in the house. 

Mrs. B. But, you know, we've often had some very nice 
things from Pappinger's. 

Fletcher. Pappinger's, Pappinger's — sounds like a 
place where there would be nice things. Confectioner's, 
1 suppose .f* 

Beaumont. Yes, tarts and jellies and all that. 

Mrs. B. Yes, and cold fowl, and glazed tongue, and 
pigeon pies, and no end of nice things. 

F'letcher. It makes one's mouth water to look at 
them. 

Beaumont, {to Mrs. Beaumont) Can't ask a man to stop 
on chance of confectioner's roast fowl, some old fossil that's 
been in the window a week ! Glazed tongue, too, equally 



14 UNCLE 

ancient, all jelly and grits. Fletcher's accustomed to good 
living. 

Fletchfr, Yes, and I have been ordered to knock oft 
all luxuries. You've made me so hungry with your remarks 
that I believe I could clear Pappinger's shop, wherever it is. 
By the way, where is Pappinger's ? I should like to go 
there and order round a small banquet. It would be n(-» 
end of fun. What say, Paul ? 

Beaumont, (aside) It would get rid of him for a short 
time, and I could improve the occasion by speaking 
seriously to Teresina — who has been, to use a 7fii/d term, 
rather ''goi?ig it." {To Fletcher) Well, if you like to tjy. 

Mrs. B. Yes, but, of course, you wouldn't dream of 
allowing Mr. Fletchei' to go and order the things. Put on 
your hat, dear, and go yourself 

Be.\umont. Eh ? 

Fletcher. Besides, you know the way, and I don't. 

Beaumont, {aside) It's rather awkward, considering I'm 
in Pappinger's debt. Pajpinger's pastry and Pappinger's 
bills are equally heavy. In fact, in going to the station, 
I have for some time given that respected pastrycook's a 
wide berth. Made a detour, in fact. If the other trades- 
men follow Pappinger, I shall have to make something 
more than a day-tovr. If Uncle Bootle should, by any acci- 
dent, have heard I— {Faintly^ Phew ! I mustn't imagine 
such an awful possibility — I — 

Fletcher, {claps Beaumont's hat on him) There you 
are, old man ! Don't be long. {Goes to Mrs. Beaumont). 

Beaumont, {aside, observing them) No, I wo?it. 

Mrs. B. It's a warm day, Paul dear ; don't walk too fast ; 
you know it ahvays upsets you. 

Beaumont. Ha ! ha ! I won't walk flist. {.-Iside ) I'll run 
like the deuce. 

Exit. 

Mrs. B. And so you and my husband are such very old 
friends ! 

Fletcher. Oh! friends of years. 

Mrs. B. Do you know, he has spoken so much about 
you that at last I quite pictured to myself whiil sort of per- 
son you were .? 

Fletcher. And of course the reality turns out a disap- 
pointment. 

Mrs. B. Oh ! you want me to pay you a compliment. 

Fletcher. Not at all. Only Pm afraid if dear old Paul 
was always singing my praises, as of course he was— 



UNCLE 15 

Mrs. B. {aside) He takes that for granted. Upon my 
word ! 

Fletcher. Why, of course, you know expectations are 
aroused which {turning over vuisic) — you play, of course. 

Mrs. B. a little. 

Fletcher. And sing, I'm sure. 

Mrs. B. SHghtly. 

Fletcher. How delightful ! How I envy Beaumont ! 

Mrs. B. Indeed! A musical wife is not always appre- 
ciated. When I sing, as a rule, Paul goes to sleep. 

Fletcher. The Goth! I wonder, now, if you would so 
far oblige a poor fellow, who is simply a musical enthusiast, 
who can't afford the opera, and finds the Monday Pops too 
deep for him — I wonder if you would be so charitable as 
to— to— 

Mrs. B. Oh! I'm afraid you're a critic. 

Fletcher. Not I, indeed. You have, — I see. Do be 
generous and sing it. 

Mrs. B. If you insist. {Plays symphony >j 

Fletcher. If Beaumont sleeps through that sort of 
thing, his dreams must be delicious. 

Mrs. B. Ha! ha! How absurd you are! 

She sings a love ballad ; at its co?iclusion, or whefi beginning 
to repeat it, re-enter Beaumont out of breath ; he watches 
them. 

Fletcher. A thousand thanks. Voice, style, execution 
perfect. When I hear such a combination I really feel in- 
clined to remark — 

Beaumont, {abruptly and severely) I've got the grub. 
The man'll be here directly. I intercepted a pigeon pie 
that was going to Mrs. McWhopper, and diverted its des- 
tiny into this direction. 

Mrs. B. I told you there'd be no difficulty. {Goes up.) 

Beaumont. And I've got a fowl, and I've got a tongue— 
and I've got a — 

Fletcher, {reflectively) Fowl — tongue. 

Beaumont. What do you mean by that, Peter ? 

Fletcher. I was merely a re-peater. {Aside to Beau- 
mOxNt) If I didn't know your eccentricities, Paul, I should 
look upon you as decidedly cranky to-day. 

Beaumont. Cranky f 

Fletcher. Rather short. 

Beaumont. You don't expect me to groav at my time 
of life. {Aside) Fletcher always was a fool. 

Mrs. B. I declare, it will be quite like a picnic. We 



I 6 UNCLE 

must do our own waiting, you know. It will be quite fun. 
And I'm so hungry. 

Beaumont, {aside) I'm not. 

Fletcher. And I've the appetite of a hunter. 

Beaumont, {aside) He always had. A hunter! Ha! 
ha! Thefeld. 

Mrs. B. Paul, my dear, you must come and assist. 

Fletcher. And I too, please. 

Mrs. B. Come along then, and help me get the knives 
and forks and things. 

Exit, R. D. 
Fletcher. Enchanted. 

Follows her ; when he is ^^* Beaumont rushes to door to look 
after them — the followiiig is give?i disjointedly as he walks 
about, etc. 

Beaumont. Any one more at home I never met. He's 
horribly good health, too, and likes rougliing it. He'll stop. 
We haven't got a spare room, but he'll suggest the sofa, I'll 
take my oath. I can't turn him out — at least I — a — don't 
think I can. I don't want to quarrel with him, for I owe 
him fifty pounds. Besides, I'm fond of Fletcher, At lea.st 
— a — I used to be fond of him. But old bachelors get so 
beastly selfish. He hasn't brought any bag or anything 
with him. Oh ! he'll go presently. Of course he'll go 
and — 

Enter Mrs. Beaumont /(^//^w.?^' by Fletcher. They carry 
a table-cloth, knives, forks, castors, etc. 

Mrs. B. Paul, what a lazy fellow you are. I couldn't 
have done without Mr. Fletcher. 
Beaumont, {aside) /could. 

Business of laying cloth ^ etc. Bekv^^O'ST looki?ig on 
biliously. 

Mrs. B. Why. Mr. Fletcher, you're quite clever. 
Beaumont. Yes, might have been born a footman. 
Fletcher. And a very good thing too. There's the 
confectioner's man, Paul. 

Mrs. B. Just go and open the door, dear? 
Beaumont, {aside) Ha! ha! V//^ chivied about, /am. 

Exit. 

Fletcher. I'm afraid you've allowed your husband to 



UNCLE 17 

lapse into lazy habits. Domestic bliss has made him, sloth- 
ful. 

Mrs. B. And he always was the dearest old dormouse. 

Fletcher, {aside) Was he though ? 

Re-enter ^^KVi-MO^-Y followed by Confectioner's Man with 

tray. 

Beaumont. Here you are. 

Mrs. B. That's all right, thank you. I'll take them. 
{business). What a lovely pie. 

Confectioner's Man. Yes'm, that's a pie as is a pie, 
that thei'e pie. 

Beaumont. Yes, yes, of course. 

Confectioner's Man. Fowl, mum, tongue, mum, tarts, 
mum. 

Fletcher. Ha ! ha ! So you ordered tarts, eh 1 

Beaumont. Yes, I knew your childish tastes. 

Confectioner's Man. Hanythink further, m_um ? 

Mrs. B. Nothing more, thanks. 

Confectioner's Man. I will call round for the dishes. 

Exit. 

Fletcher, {at door) Yes, don't hurry ; this'll last us a 
couple of days at least. 

Beaumont, {aside, to Mrs. Beaumont severely) Do you 
hear that ? 

Mrs. B. No. What? 

Beaumont. Yes, I believe you do " kiiow what'' {Aside) 
If I don't bring matters to a climax — I can see Fletcher's a 
fixture. 

Mrs. Beaumont has placed the dishes. 

Mrs. B. Now, I call that a picture. Now, Paul, dear, go 
and fetch the champage. 

Fletcher. Champagne ? By Jove, you are Sybarites. 

Beaumont, {aside) The last of his race. The sole re- 
maining member of the dozen I ordered on coming here. 

Fletcher. Now, wake up, old man, and fetch the 
fizz. 

Beaumont, {aside). Fetch the fizz. I should Hke to 
fetch his " phiz." {action of striking). What's the worst of 
it is it's cheap, and he'll find it out. 

Mrs. B. Oh ! do go, Paul, dear, don't be an hour. 

Beaumont, {aside, almost tearfully). I am chivied about 

Exit. 



l8 UNCLE 

Mrs. B. It seems quite a shame to destroy the symmetry - 
of that pie, doesn't it ? 

Fletcher. Yes — it's quite a work of art. Really your 
local confectioner is a decided find. 

Mrs. B. Isn't he ? Oh ! we're not quite outside the 
pale of civilization, Mr. Fletcher. 

Enter quickly Beaumont, ivith c/iampag?ie opened. 

Beaumont, {aside) Opened it outside, for he'd be sure to 
ask to see the cork. Now, I can tell you, Fletcher, this wine 
is I'ather. That's what it is — rather. 

Fletcher. Sorry for that, I prefer it quite. 

Beaumont. Just so. How ready you are. 

Fletcher. Hope the champagne isn't. 

Beaumont. Isn't what f 

Fletcher. Reddy. Gooseberry like, you know. Prefer 
it light-tawny. 

Beaumont, (aside) He'll twig it direcdy. 

Mrs. B. Now sit down. Mr. Fletcher says that pie's a 
work of art. 

Fletcher. Yes, ought to be put under a glass case. 

Beaumont, {aside) I know what sort of a glass case he'll 
put it under. 

Mrs. Beaumont begins to cut pie ajid assist. Beaumont 
pours out wine into Fletcher's glass. The glasses have 
been on the sideboard. 

Beaumont, {genially) There, Peter, my boy, that's not 
half a bad glass of wine. 

Fletcher, {holding it vp — // is not full) Excuse me, 
Paul, it is half a bad glass of wine. Suppose you make it a 
full one. 

Beaumont. Beg your pardon. {Business, Jills his ow?i 
and Mrs. Beaumont's glass) 

Fletcher. Your good health, Mrs. Beaumont. Paul, 
dear boy, bless you. {Dri7iks) 

Mrs. B. I'm sure this is infinitely preferable to the 
ruined joints and vilely cooked chops and steaks Sarah 
gave us. 

Fletcher. Ha, not a despicable brand by any means. 

Beaumont, {gettiiig genial) Thought you'd like it, old 
fellow, 

Fletcher, {aside) Poison. 

Beaumont. Ha! ha! This is rather rich after all. I 
wonder what old Uncle Bootle would say if he were to see 
us now. Eh, Teresina, my love. 



UNCLE 19 

Mrs. B. Ha ! ha ! Paul, what a man you are. 

Fletcher. Yes. Ha! ha! Yes, he always ze/^w. Don't 
let's have the skeleton at the banquet. 

Beaumont. No, no, unless it's that of the fowl when 
we've finished him. 

All laugh. Fletcher helps Mrs. Beaumont to wine, etc. 

Fletcher. I suppose you've no recollection of him. 

Beaumont. No. Got his miniature on the chimney 
piece. Taken some years ago. Hideous then — by this 
time, must be revolting. 

Fletcher. Ha ! ha ! You're severe, Paul. Glass of 
wine. {Business, music piafio.) 

Mrs. B. What a lucky thing it is for poor Paul that the 
terrible old man's in a far distant land. 

Beaumont. Well, here's his better health, wherever 
he is. 

About to dririk. A loud kuocktpg heard at the door, and a 
loud ringing. Pause — consternation. 

Beaumont, {in a low voice) Who — who can that be ? 

Mrs. B. What a knock and ring ! Oh dear, I feel quite 
frightened. 

Fletcher, {goes to window) It's a cab, or fly. And 
there's an old gentleman getting out of it. A little old gen- 
tleman. 

Beaumont, {faintly, half staggering to chimney-piece, r., 
and clutching the miiiiatm'e) A — a little old gentleman. 1 
don't know any little old gentleman. What — what is he 
like? 

Fletcher. Well, he's not a beauty. In fact, he's plain 
— indeed, he's ugly. 

Beaumont. A horrible suspicion over — over — {looking 
at miniature). Has he got a face like parchment? A — a — 
hook nose ? A pair of heavy eyebrows ? ? A glance like 
an eagle ? ? ? A bald head ? ? ? ? 

Fletcher. A face like parchment, a hook nose, heavy 
eyebrows, an eagleish expression, and now he takes his hat 
off, he certainly is as bald as — you've simply described him 
to the very letter. 

Beaumont. Uncle Bootle. 

Collapses on to chair ; Mrs. Beaumont clasps her hands, 
looking in dismay at Fletcher * music swells. 

Act Drop 



ACT 11 

Scene. — Same as Act I. As the Act drop rises, the stage is 
vacant. 

Flyman, {heard outside) Call yourself a gentleman, do 
you? 

Beaumont. Hold your insolent tongue, sir. 

Flyman. I've got just as good a right to speak as I think 
proper as you have, or anybody helse. 

Uncle. You're evidently a very ill-regulated individual. 
You've got your fare and you'll get no more. 

Flyman. All right. If you wants to go back to the sta- 
tion don't send for me, that's all. 

Uncle. Go along with you, you ill-regulated individual. 

Enter By^kvugnt, followed by Uncle Bootle. 

Beaumont. I'm so sorry, my dear sir, you should have 
been so bothered. Flymen are all ruffians. 

Uncle. Never mind, he didn't do me. I can stand any- 
thing but being done. Well, you're thunderstruck to see me 
here. So I am myself. Marvelous cure. Legs as right as 
ninepence. 

Beaumont, {aside) Nine pins, he means. 

Uncle. Let's have a look at you. Ha ! don't recall a 
single feature. 

Beaumont. No; you haven't seen me since I was an 
infant. 

Uncle. Perhaps that accounts for it. And how do you 
think / look ? 

Beaumont. Wonderful. 

Uncle. So I am. So I am. What an out-of-the-way hole 
of a place to live in. What on earth makes you select this 
place, of all others. 

Beaumont. My dear uncle, quiet — quiet is so essential 
to study. London's all dissipation, and — and — 

Uncle. So it is, so it is. At least, it used to be when / 
was a young fellow. Ha ! ha ! and when I was a young fel- 
low I was one, and no mistake, sir. 

Beaumont, {aside) I wonder where my wife and Fletcher 
have got to ? 

Uncle. There's one thing that has pleased me about 
you, Nephew Paul — you never exceeded your allowance. 

20 



UNCLE 21 

Beaumont. My dear uncle, I have always studied econ- 
omy. .A simple chop, a glass of humming ale, a crust of 
bread and cheese have formed my staple — a — {Sees that 
Uncle Bootle has observed the elegant spread^ 

Uncle. The deuce they have ! This doesn't look hke a 
chop and glass of beer. 

Beaumont. Eh? No— Ha! ha! Fact is, an old friend 
of mine's birthday, and — a — 

Uncle, (j-^/^r/j^) Bah ! Birthday! If people never married 
there'd be no birthdays. 

Beaumont, {blankl}^ No, I daresay it would make a differ- 
ence. I confess that never struck me before. 

Uncle. Now that it has struck you let the impression be 
a lasting one. Thank Heaven, when I quit this world I 
shall have the satisfaction of leaving behind me one being 
whom self-interest will always keep a single man. 

Beaumont, {aside, agonizedly) Why — why isn't he bed^ 
ridden as of yore. 

Uncle. Champagne, as I'm alive! 

Beaumont, {aside) He's much more alive than the cham- 
pagne was. 

Uncle, {takes up bottle) I say, my young spark, this is 
rather different from what I expected. 

Beaumont, {aside) It was just what / expected. 

Uncle. I suppose this is an occasional case. 

Beaumont. It wasn't a case, it was only half-a-dozen. 
Fact is — a — it was a little present from a fellow-student. I 
don't drink champagne myself. { Virtuously) Give me good, 
sound, humming ale. 

Uncle. Rubbish. There's rather too mzich " humming " 
about that ale of yours. However, let's chat of other mat- 
ters. I sha'n't be with you long. 

Beaumont. My dear uncle, I trust you may live for many, 
many years. 

Uncle. Bosh I 1 didn't mean that. Live ! Of course I 
may. And intend to. I meant I shall only be with you a 
short time here — in this cottage. I'm going to Torquay this 
afternoon. I believe it's rather a dull sort of — 

^Y.k\5'^\0'i^i:. {enthusiastically) Dull ! Torquay? The most 
lively, lovely, healthy, picturesque, and popular seaside para- 
dise imaginable. Fancy, dear uncle, the rippling waves as 
they come rolling and tumbling along on — 

Uncle, {enraged) Hold your tongue ! Waves ! Hate 'em ! 
Haven't I just had six weeks of 'em ? 

Beaumont, {plausibly) Ah ! but these are such diffe*^^nt 
waves. So gentle, so undulating — 



22 UNCLE 

Uncle. Shut up. 

Beaumont, {aside, mildly) He's a nice old man, uncle. 

Uncle. By the way, Paul, you may as well come with me 
to Torquay. As you say it's so delightful, and you do look 
rather pale — overwork. 1 suppose — why, a month at the sea- 
side would do you all the good in the world. 

Beaumont. Well, but, uncle, I — 

Uncle. Not at all, not at all. You'll come ? {Goes up) 

Beaumont. It'll have to come out. How can / go to 
Torquay ? And — I w^onder where my wife and Fletcher are. 

Uncle, {turns) Nice sort of place, this. Half a mind to 
stay a bit. Healthy here, eh ? 

Beaumont. Well — a — {Aside) Now, which would be 
more awful — to go with him to Torquay or for him to re- 
main here ? Either way " madness lies." Just so. But 
madness never lied half as much as /shall have to do. 

Uncle. Now, go and get some things ready. A bachelor 
like you won't care for an outfit. By Jove ! sir, we'll have a 
jolly month of it. 

Beaumont. Yes — a — the fact is, uncle, I have accepted 
an invitation to an old school-fellow's in Yorkshire, and the 
day after to-morrow I am due at his house. I can't get out 
of it, and — 

Uncle. {keenly>) Ha ! Has he got any sisters ? 

Beaumont. Nothing of the kind. 

Uncle. Very good. Then of course you can go. For — 
{bringing BeaUxMONT down seidously) — my dear Paul, it 
would grieve me to have to turn you adrift. Now be hon- 
est with me. You don't think, of any such madness as — 

Beaumont. Marrying ? Why should I } 

Uncle. And, on your honor, you're not engaged ? 

Beaumont. Certainly not. 

Uncle. No inclination that way ? 

Beaumont. Not the slightest. 

Uncle, {shaking hands) Then, my boy, you may con- 
sider yourself a wealthy man. It's only a question of time. 
Now, if you'll allow me, I'll just go up-stairs and have a 
wash. I'm all dust. Is that your room .? Thank you. 
Don't >'<?2^ bother to come. 

Exit L. D. 

Beaumont, {alone) Five minutes longer and I should 
fiave fainted. What's to be done — what's to be — 

Enter Mrs. Beaumont and Fletcher, quickly. 

Both, {in u?tder tone, hastily) Well, well.'* 



UNCLE 23 

Beaumont. He's gone up- stairs ; he'll be down again 
directly, and I'm a ruined man. 

Fletcher. Is he going to stop ? 

Beaumont, No. He's going to Torquay, presently. 

Mrs. B. Well, all I have to do is to keep out of his way. 

Fletcher. Certainly. Let us conceal ourselves. 

Beaumont. What have you got to do with it ? It wouldn't 
signify Uncle Bootle seeing jj/^^/a 

Mrs. B. Oh ! Paul dear, why not confess ail and fling 
yourself on his heart? 

Beaumont. Because I should upset him— knock him 
over. 

Fletcher. Sui^pose / play the "go between," and ne- 
gotiate. 

Beaumont. Madness. Once he discovers I'm married, 
and I'm a pauper. 

Mrs. B. But he hasn't discovered it j^^/, Paul, dear, and 
if he's going away presendy, there's no reason he should. 

Beaumont. Just so. But don't you think it advisable 
you should both — 

Uncle Bootle enters. Fletcher seeing Bootle behind 
Beaumont, signifies to him the fact by what he supposes 
to be expressive pantomimic action. 

Beaumont. I say— you should both {pause, business) 
What's the matter, old fellow ? 

Uncle. Paul, has your friend got St. Vitus's dance ? 

Beaumont, {aside — in dismay) Oh ! lor ! 

Uncle. Gracious me. A lady ! 

Beaumont, {blankly^ Eh ? A what ? 

Uncle, {blandly) A lady, Pauj. 

Beaumont. Ah — yes — of course. Dear me. 

Uncle. This gentleman's — 

Beaumont, {with a burst) Wife— certainly. Allow me, 
uncle. Mr. and— hem !— Mrs. Fletcher. Old friends of 
mine — old — a — ( Wanders up the room, quite overcome^ 

Uncle, {politely) Fletcher—Fletcher. Any relation to 
Phineas Fletcher, some time since — forty years ago or so — 
in the India House ? 

Fletcher. A distant relation, I believe, Mr. Bootle. 

Uncle, {shakes ha?ids) Happy to know you, sir. {To 
Mrs. Beaumont) Madame, this is indeed a surprise. 
{Boze's. Aside) Devilish fine young woman that. {Aside 
to Beaumont) By Jove, sir, if you'd fallen a victim to 
something like what your friend Fletcher — 

Beaumont, {eagerly) You'd have forgiven me if I'd — 



24 UNCLE 

Uncle. Married ? Not a bit of it. But I shouldn't have 
felt surprised. I should have sympathized with you, pitied 
you, and — 

Beaumont, {eagerly) Yes, uncle ! 

Uncle, {drily) Cut you off with a shilling. ( Turns aside 
and joins Mrs. Beaumont ; Ihey co7iverse.) 

Fletcher, {aside to Beaumont) Paul, my dear fellow, 
that sudden idea was inspiration. All we've got to do now 
is to keep up the deception. Rely on me. {Grasps his 
hand) 

Beaumont, {blankly) Thank you, Peter ; you — a — you 
always were a true friend. 

Fletcher. So long as there's a shadow of danger I'll 
never leave you. ( Wrbigs his hand) 

Beaumont. Thank you. ( They go up ; Uncle a7id Mrs. 
Beaumont come down) 

Uncle, ^'our husband and mv nephew very old friends, 
eh? 

Mrs. B. Oh! yes! school-fellows. 

Uncle. Ha — wow— 2.— yon know all about Paul, of 
course, from your husband. Husbands always tell their 
wives everything ; it's one of the results of an atrocious sys- 
tem — a — I suppose all those reports that reached me about 
your husband's friend were fabrications. I can talk to you 
I see ; you're a young lady of sense. 

Mrs. B. Reports ? What reports ? 

Uncle. As to what a sad dog he was with j^^z^r sex. 

Mrs. B. {a little overcome) No, indeed — indeed, no. How 
long ago was that ? 

Uncle. Oh ! a year or so. Some kind friends of his. 
since gone abroad, wrote me that he was — that he'd been 
engaged to a young person in a restaurant, and jilted her. 

Mrs. B. What, Paul — I mean Mr. Beaumont — my — 

Uncle. Your ivhat ? 

Mrs. B. My gj^acions ! 

Beaumont, {up to Fletcher) The old fellow seems to be 
getting on all right with the wife. 

Fletcher. Oh! everybody who meets her must be fas- 
cinated. 

Beaumont. He-hem ! {Moves aside) 

Uncle. But I heard worse things than that. 

Mrs. B. Worse I What could be worse ? 

Uncle. My dear, you don't know what men are. 

Mrs. B. {aside) If I hnd Paul was a monster before his 
marriage — I'll — I don't know what I wo7i't do. 

Uncle. I heard also that the brother of a young lady at 



UNCLE 25 

Twickenham had a violent interview with him, resulting in 
a severe assault, which took the form of kicks. These. I 
heard, my nephew pocketed. 

Mrs. B. Pocketed the— how could he ? 
Fletcher, {down) Well, Mr. Bootle, I'm sorry I shall 
not have a speedy opportunity of renewing our acquaint- 
ance. I hear you are booked for that exquisite spot, 
Torquay. 

Beaumont. Loveliest place in the three kingdoms. 

Uncle, {aside) They seem rather anxious about Torquay. 
Bootle, my boy, you haven't come all the way from Hydera- 
bad to be do?ie. The poUteness here's a little oppressive. 
He-hem ! {Moves aside.) 

Beaumont, {to Mrs. Beaumont, aside) Teresina, my 
angel, the necessity for this miserable subterfuge will soon 
be over, I — 

Mrs. B. {with restrained temper, to him) The girl at the 
restaurant ! 

Beaumont. Eh ? 

Mrs. B. The Twickenham brother! {Goes aside to 
Uncle.) 

Beaumont, {aside) That four-and-sixpenny champagne's 
too much for Teresina. 

Uncle, {to Mrs. Beaumont) As I was determined to 
find out the truth, partly for pleasure — partly ior business — 
but principally to see for myself if the reports of Paul were 
true, I came to England. Once an invalid, I'm all right 
again now. I soon get used up, though. I feel over-tired 
already. ( Yawns and sinks into a chair), 

Beaumont, {aside) If he's going to settle to sleep it's all 
up with us. 

Fletcher, {to Beaumont, aside) The best thing for us 
to do is to clear out for a bit. I'm so afraid your wife may 
forget her new position. 

Beaumont. Oh ! I don't think there's any fear of that. 

Fletcher. Now, as Paul and his uncle have no doubt 
plenty to talk about, I think, my dear, we'll leave them 
together a bit. (Mrs. Beaumont and he prepare to go.) 

Beaumont, {aside) He " my dear's " her as if he'd done 
it before. (Uncle Bootle is settling for a nap.) 

Mrs. B. {to Fletcher) Oh ! yes, you're quite right. And 
possibly he may wish to explain to his uncle about the kicks. 

Beaumont. About the what? 

Mrs. B. {severely) The well-merited, well-delivered, and 
unavenged kicks. Come, Peter. ( They exit.) 

Beaumont, {blankly) Kicks! I wonder if lunacy runs 



26 UNCLE 

in Teresina's family. I believe her father was sane, and 
her mother's a mass of maternal intellect. Perhaps she'd 
a rabid grandparent. " Come, Peter." Peter's him. I'm 
afraid I shall have to assault Peter. I've half a mind to 
throw myself on my uncle's generosity. I'm sure he's got 
a good heart. He's so deuced ugly, he must have a good 
heart. I — I'll test it. {Strikes an attitude of humility.) 
Uncle, — best, most generous, most forgiving and niosi 
revered of uncles, listen to the — (Uncle Bootlk gives a 
long and decided snore. Pause) At the outset that's a little 
chilling. Hem ! {Loudly) Uncle ! (Uncle Bootle snores 
louder, as if half wakiiig.) " Now could I kill him, pat !" 
I think it would be as well, as the poet says, to leave him 
alone in his glory. (Uncle Bootle gives another snore.) 
Or rather his snorey. If I remained, I might be tempted to 
do him a mischief. That bald head does look so inviting. 
I — a — I — rather — (Uncle Bootle gives an enormous 
snore) 

Beaumont. Oh ! law ! {Exit quickly) 

Uncle, {in his sleep) Take my advice — a — a — three per 
cents — three per cents — small interest but easy conscience 
—a — a {gurgles) — Bah ! 

Enter at French window Emily Montrose. 

Emily. Hem! {Pause) A-hem! {Comes in) No one 
here. The front door bell broken and the side entrance 
open. What very honest people there must be about here. 
Hem ! Surely this is the house Mr. Lapwing, the agent, 
said was to let furnished for the summer. Aunt Nabbs 
says it is, and Aunt Nabbs is always right. Where is the 
landlady, or owner, or whatever she is ? {Sees remai?is of 
luncheo7i) They've been dining early. Shouldn't wonder 
if they'd gone to sleep. (Uncle Bootle s?iores gently) 
They have. Wherever did that sound proceed from ? 
Why, I declare — {goes on tiptoe to chair where Uncle 
Bootle is) — it's actually a — 

Uncle, {wakes up suddenly and looks round with his 
handkerchief over his head) Halloa ! 

Emily, {with a slight shriek, goes to r.) Oh ! if you please, 
I didn't mean to. 

Uncle. Was that a fly ? 

Emily, {kijidly) No, sir ; a female. 

Uncle. A what ? 

Emily. A lady. 

Uncle, {grinning) It's that wicked Mrs. Fletcher been 
trying to win a pair of gloves. Where are my glasses ? 



UNCLE 27 

Emily, {aside) What a plain liiile old man! I wonder if 
he's the owner of the house. I hope it won't suit Aunt Nabbs, 
for I'm sure I should be haunted with the recollection of the 
proprietor. I should be afraid of going up-stairs in the dark 
for fear of meeting his ghost. I'm terribly frightened. I 
never saw a real, live ogre, but I'm sure they're like him. 
How he rolls his ej'es, and how wild he looks ! 

Uncle. Confound those glasses ! I had glasses. 

Emily, {aside) I believe he's had several. 

Uncle. I'm afraid to move about, for I'm sure to fall over 
something. 

Emily. Oh ! if you please, I'm sorry to disturb you. 

Uncle, {aside) Voice seems more geritle than it was. 

Emily. Do I understand this house is to let ? 

Uncle. Eh ? {Aside) Oh ! I see. She and Fletcher'd 
like to stop here. Of course, Paul considers / represent 
everything 7io2v. If it is, my dear — ha ! ha I I will say you're 
early in the field as an applicant. 

Emily. ''My dear'\' The familiarity of the plain old man ! 

Uncle. Nothing like taking time by the forelock. 

Emily, {aside) I wonder time hasn't taken him by the fore- 
lock. Oh ! I see, he hasn't got one. 

Uncle, {aside) If I don't find 'em I'm grounded, and I 
don't care about all the world knowing I'm as — 

Emily. Not that / care for the house, but it might suit 
my aunt. 

Uncle. Your who .? 

Emily. My aunt, Mrs. Nicholas Nabbs, of The Nastur- 
tiums, Norwood. 

Uncle. My dear young lady, take the advice of one who's 
seen rather more than_y^?< have. Never have your relations 
to live with you. 

Emily. But my aunt always has lived with me. I am 
entirely dependent on her. 

Uncle, {aside) Ah ! There is a sort of idle, happy-go- 
lucky air about the fellow. Don't suppose he does much for 
a living. Comes down here, sees a place that suits, sets his 
wife on to pump me. Aunt Nabbs indeed ! Ha ! ha ! The 
innocent ynanner she assumes, too ! {Loudly) Ha ! woman ! 
woman ! what a swindle you are ! 

Emily. What ? {Aside) Not only a very plain old man. 
but he's a very insolent old man. The idea of calling me a 
woman ! I should like to hear him call Aunt Nabbs one. 
I'll go back and send her to tackle him. {Aloud) As you 
don't appear willing, or indeed capable of giving me any 
information, I won't trouble you any further. 



28 UNCLE 

Uncle. Don't be huffy, don't be huffy, my dear Mrs. 
Fletcher. 

Emily, {ivith a smothei^ed half- shriek, falls back a step or 
two) Mrs. ! {Pause) What do you say ? 

Uncle, {aside) Ah ! that's more in her old style. Little 
woman of spirit — objects to the " viy dear.'' Well, then, 
plai7i " Mrs. Fletcher." 

Emily, {aside) Can I believe my ears ? How is it possible 
.that this dreadful old man can have — oh ! it's too ridiculous 
— it's — {She sees something through the window that causes 
her to shriek and stagger back. Uncle Bootle starts, 
alaf 77ied.) 

Uncle. My dear madam, what on earth — 

Emily. Oh ! don't speak to me. Ah ! let me — let me — 
{Staggers out.) 

Uncle. I .couldn't catch what she said. Bah ! Women 
are such hysterical, uncertain creatures. I hope Paul will 
be favored with a few exhibitions of his friend's wife's 
vagaries. It'll do him good, and convince him more than — 
Why, here they are, confound them ! {discovers his glasses) 
As Macbeth very nearly said. " Why so being " found. 
Ha! ha! I'm a man again. 

Enter Fletcher. 

Fletcher, {aside) I suppose Beaumont and his wife are 
concocting further plans, for she didn't remain with 7ne for a 
moment. 

Uncle. I hope she's better, Mr. Fletcher. 

Fletcher. Eh ? Anything the matter with her? 

Uncle. I don't know. She's only just now gone out, 
with a shriek like the Scotch express. 

Fletcher, {aside) Poor Mrs. Beaumont! This excite- 
ment has no doubt upset her. Of course, too, Paul's been 
blowing her up about me. It's not my fault if I happen to 
fascinate. Nature's done a good deal for me, my tailor's 
backed up nature, and if I'm dangerous it isn't 7ny fault. 

Uncle, {aside) I'll tackle him about her applying for the 
house. You'll excuse me, Mr. Fletcher, but considering 
everything, I put it to you — do 3^ou — hem ! — do you think 
this quite the thing, eh ? 

Fletcher, {aside) What's he mean .? 

Uncle. It's anything but good taste owyour part, but I 
don't hold the lady free from the charge of deception. 

. Fletcher, {astonished) You'll excuse me — a — 

Uncle. You'll excuse me, but it's fishy, sir — that's what 
it \s, fishy. 



6 



UNCLE 29 

Fletcher, {aside) She's confessed. 

Uncle. When I say she's to blame, I know well that a 
wife is to a certain extent under her husband's influence. 
It's part ot the abominable arrangement. 

Enter Beaumont at back ; paiises. 

Fletcher. Believe me, my dear sir, the notion was not 
mine. But this is a great relief, and I'm only too delighted 
that now you see everything. As you now know all, I hope 
you'll acquit me of — 

Uncle, {aside) Dreadful snob this. Wants to shift all 
the blame to his wife. ( To him) I don't suppose my opin- 
ion one way or the other would signify to you. {Aside) 
I'll just go and take a stroll in the garden. There's some- 
thing about this fellow I can't put up with, and he's so 
abominably good looking. Very much what / was about 
his age. {Exit.) 

Fletcher, {aside) He doesn't seem half as enraged as 
one fancied he would be. Poor little woman, I don't wonder 
at her breaking down. I don't wonder at her — {as he turjis, 
finds Beaumont, pallid with suppressed rage, by his side) — 
halloa. Paul. 

Beaumont. Don't " Paul " me sir ! Traitor ! Snake in 
the grass ! Paltry, perfidious Peter ! " Peter." Never again ! 
False, fascinating, but fallacious Fletcher ! >( f\ 

Fletcher. Don't make a fool of yourself, Beaumont! 

Beaumont. i(with polite sarcasm) No, sir, you saved me 
that trouble. \^ Q"^ 

Fletcher. Pardon me, don't give vie credit for what is 
really due to nature. 

Beaumont. Now, I daresay you think that smart, 

Fletcher. I do, and yow feel it. 

Beaumont. Ha! ha! Yow'yq Si wit,you sme.'i i\ 

Fletcher. Not my fault — we can't be all dull. 

Beaumont, {aside) If I wasn't morally certain he'd hit 
me back again, I'd strike him. I once had an encounter 
with him at school. I bear the marks still. Hem ! I will 
restrain myself 

Fletcher. Wliat on earth are you angry with me about? 

Beaumont. What ? Fortunately I have ears. 

Fletcher. Vou have. And thoroughly are those ears 
developed. 

Beaumont. Hem ! So/ue people have noses. 

Fletcher. Most people. 

Beaumont. Which are occasionally pulled. 

Fletcher. By other people. 



30 UNCLE 

Beaumont. Why, of course, you miserable idiot, nobody 
pulls his own. {Slight pause) 

Fletcher, {determinedly) I believe you remarked " mis- 
erable idiot." 

Beaumont. I believe I did. 

Fletcher. Meaning me. 

Beaumont. Well — a — 

Fletcher. I say, was it meant for me? 

Beaumont. Oh ! whoever the cap fits can wear it. 

Fletcher. Were it — I mean was it intended lor mef 

Beaumont. Peter Fletcher — {seizes his /iaiid)—wQ have 
been friends almost from childhood. 

Flktcher. Bosh ! {Takes his hand back.) 

Beaumont. We have grown up into riper years, almost 
constant companions, ^'ou come to see me. \'ou partake 
of my pigeon pie. 

Fletcher. Pappinger's. 

Beaumont. You partake of my Pappinger's pigeon pie. 
You have so upset me, I don't know what 1 am saying. 

Fletcher. 1 don't suppose you do. 

Beaumont. Ungenerous Fletcher! Knowing the fatal 
effect of my marriage being known to Uncle Bootle — to the 
one sole relative on whom I depend for everything — you — 
you — {over-come) — oh ! Peter — for the fast lime, Peter, you 
have ruined me. {Sinks into chair.) 

F'letcher. Have you been taking any more of that re- 
volting, so-called, champagne ? 

Beaumont, {aside , faintly) 1 knew he'd find it out. 

Fletcher. Eh ? Paul, confess. 

Beaumont. Anyway, you helped to put it out of sight. 

Fletcher. And it helped to put you " out of mind." 
What's the matter ? 

Beaumont. Ha ! ha ! You go and tell Uncle Bootle I'm 
married — explain the wretched expedient I've resorted to — 
and you ask me " What's the matter." 

Fletcher. I told your uncle nothing. 

Beaumont. {s7ieeringly) Oh ! indeed. 

Fletcher. And as you talk about caps being worn 
by those they fit, let Mrs. Beaumont wear this particular 
one. 

Beaumont. Mrs. Beaumont doesn't wear caps, sir. Mrs. 
Beaumont is a lady incapable of — 

Fletcher. Wearing caps ? 

Beaumont. No, Fletcher. Mrs. Beaumont would wear^ 
anything / wished her. If 1 desired it Mrs. Beaumont 
would wear a — a suit of mail. 



UNCLE 31 

Fletcher. Mail, no doubt. Regarding dress, her views 
are decidedly masculine. 

Beaumont. Masculine, sir. 

Fletcher. And a good thing, too. Many women dress 
so vulgarly. It's much better her taste should tend rather 
to Maskeline than Cook. 

Beaumont. Miserable quibble. Do you know Dr. John- 
son's definition of a punster, Mr. Fletcher? 

Fletcher. Would you like to hear my definition oi Dr. 
Johnson f 

Beaumont. Yes. 

Fletcher. Then you sha'n't. 

Be.\umont. All this is subterfuge. What did you mean 
about Mrs. Beaumont and the cap '^ 

Fletcher. Simply that she — not /—confessed the con- 
spiracy to your uncle. 

Beaumont, {staggered) She ! Teresina ! 

Fletcher. Teresina. 

Beaumont, {enraged) Dont ca!l my wife Teresina, Peter 
Fletcher. 

Fletcher. But her nanie's Teresina, Paul Beaumont, 
and I repeat that she has confessed everything to your 
uncle. He has just now told me so — at least, now I come to 
think of it, he didn't exactly fell me so, but he said enough 
to — / see, Teresina — I — 

E7i/er Mrs. Beaumont. 

Beaumont. So, madam, you have capped your mys- 
terious behavior. You have put a climax to conduct that 
included remarks about a restaurant and observations 
about kicks. \'our unaccountable course of action has 
culminated, I say, in a confession — a confession that dooms 
me to a pauper's fate. {Sinking on chair) 

Mrs. B. {lo Fletcher) Don't you think you'd better fetch 
a doctor ? He's — 

Beaumont, {sfarti/ig up) Don't you attempt it. Teresina 
Beaumont, j'<?/< have sealed my doom. You have told Uncle 
Bootle we are married. You have exposed the swindle. 
You have — 

Mrs. B. {firing up) Who says so— fell me who says 
so ? 

Beaumont. Fletcher. ( With infeiifion, aside to her) 
Your new, but evidently intensely appreciated acquaint- 
ance — Fletcher. 

Mrs. B. {to Fletcher) Yy'xAyou say / had — 

Fletcher, {aside) Once out of this house. I shall con- 



32 UNCLE 

sider myself lucky. I'm so muddled that really I couldn't 

vow he — but it sounded so deuced like it. 

Mrs. B. Why don't you reply ? 

Beaumont. Yes, why don't you reply ? You're ready 
enough to make assertions. {Blusteri?igly) Why don't you 
back 'em up, eh ? 

Fletcher, {aside) I'd better get out of this. I'll leave it 
to old Bootle. ( To Beaumont) Well, you know the most 
sensible of us i'^'w^times make a — 

Mrs. B. {triumphantly, but with malice, to Beaumont) 
There ! Ha ! ha ! {Aside) He shall smart for this. 

Fletcher. I repeat, the most sensible of us may make 
a mistake. 

Beaumont. {blu.steri?igly) Certainly, the most sensible 
may, but you don't c\2iss yourself in that category. 

Fletcher, {threateningly) Mr. Beaumont, if your wife 
were not present I'd — 

Mrs. B. Mr. Fletcher, don't deign to touch him. {To 
Beaumont) Since you have chosen to bring this false 
accusation against me, you shdll not have cause to repeat 
it. Whilst your uncle remains there shall be no doubt on 
his mind that we are Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher. 

Enter Uncle Bootle. 

Beaumont, {aside) I foresee a fleeting future in Hanwell. 
Uncle. Now, my dear Mrs. Fletcher, I do hope you — 
Beaumont, {to hini) Mrs. Fletcher ! 

Emily e^iters at back. 

Mrs. B. Why not, Mr. Beaumont .'' 

Uncle, {turning to him) Yes, why not, Mr. Beaumont ? 

Emily, {aside) Fickle, false, heartless, base, and abomi- 
nable traitor! This was what he called sketching in 
Wales ! 

Mrs. B. {to Fletcher) Your friend seems to have some 
doubt upon the subject. As if we hadn't been married 

THESE three MONTHS, LOVE! 

Fletcher. Of course, darl — 

Emily gives a wailing shriek and falls into Uncle's arms. 
Uncle turns, thunderstruck. Fletcher stands trans- 
fixed, and Beaumont, with a slight shriek in imitation 
of Emily's, collapses into Uncle's other arm. Uncle 
turns to him, thunderstruck. 

picture 
Act Drop 



ACT III 

Scene. — The same as Acts I and U. Lamps lighted, cur' 
tains drawn. Fletcher and Emily discovered ; they are 
both walking up and dow?i the room at opposite sides. 

Emily. Well, sir? 

Fletcher. Well, Emily. 

Emily. " Emily ''—pah ! 

Fletcher. Why Emily Parr? You haven't changed 
your name, surely ? 

Emily. /.'' That comes well from j/(??/. No, sir. /am 
not a false and perfidious impostor. 

Fletcher. That I'm sure of 

Emily. Now, that at last we are alone, what I demand 
is an explanation. 

Fletcher. I would have explained before, but you 
wouldn't let me. 

Emily. Because of course you can't. 

Fletcher. Then why don't you ask me ? 

Emily. Because you must. 

Fletcher. Eh ? 

Emily. And shall. 

Fletcher. And will. 

Emily. Eh ? 

Fletcher. If you'll permit me. 

Emily. You haven't written to me for more than 'a 
month. 

Fletcher. Admitted. 

Emily. For your own reasons, of course. Possibly you 
object to the victim of your artful wiles being in possession 
of written documents. 

Fletcher. I don't understand you. 

Emily. You will: you'll find I've a spirit; that Aunt 
Nabbs has a spirit. 

Fletcher, {aside) She has, and occasionally partakes 
of it. 

Emily. I come by accident to this cottage. 

Fletcher. So do I. 

Emily. Yes, you'd have never come had you expected 
to meet me here. 

Fletcher. On the contrary, that's just what would 
have induced me to do so. 

3 33 



34 UNCLE 

Emily. Don't put me out ! 

Fletcher. I can't, my love, it's not my house. 

Emily. "My love!" You presume, with a wife on the 
premises, to call me, ' my love " ! Why don't you blush to 
the roots of your hair? No other kind of blush will meet 
the case — {melodramatically) it must be a blush to the roots 
of your hair. 

Fletcher. I assure you I haven't any — any — 

Emily. Any i-oots ? 

Fletcher. No. Anything to blush for. 

Emily. What! I ask you if there isn't a wife on the 
premises. Answer that. 

Fletcher. I do answer that. There is a wife on the 
premises, /couldn't help it. 

Emily. Oh ! you couldn't help it. Your behavior is as 
unaccountable as it is unmanly. You deceive me heartlessly 
{half crying) and you coolly say " you — you — c — couldn't 
help it." — {Sinks i?i tears on sofa.) 

Fletcher, {affected) Emily — Emily ! 

Emily, {in same tone as before) And you don't blush to 
the roots of your hair. 

Fletcher. Emily — believe me, if I've done wrong I'll 
turn crimson to the soles of my boots. You won't hear 
me. 

Emh.y. {sitting up) I have heard too much — seen too 
much. {Rising) But Aunt Nabbs shall know all. {Crosses 
to L.) 

Flktcher. Why will you persistently fling your aunt 
in my teeth ? 

Emily. You have flung your wife in nmie. 

Fletcher. You'll excuse 7ne, but — 

Emily. No. I won't — I have your letters — a boxful of 
them, and if you think conduct such as yours can pass un- 
punished and unexposed, you are mightily mistaken. 

Fletcher. A woman who brings a breach of promise 
action is — is — 

Emily. Perfectly right. " If," as Shakespeare says. " it 
will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge." 

Fletcher. You'll excuse me, but there'll be the counsel 
who'll have to be fee'd as well. Do you know what the 
costs of that sort of thing come to ? 

Emh.v. What does it matter ? Yoiill\\di\^ to pay them, 
You must lose. 

P'letcher. ^'es, if you prove your case. 

Emily. Which I can. 

Fletcher. Which you can't. 



UNCLE 35 

Emily. Not after what I've seen and heard ? 

Fletcher, No — not even after that. 

Emily. Then there's no such thing as evidence. 

Fletcher. No — not \xiyour case. 

Emily. There's the evidence of my senses. 

Fletcher. Yes. You can't very well put your senses 
in the witness box. 

Emily. I tell you what it is, Peter. 

Fletcher. That's right. I'm glad you call me Peter 
once again. {Smgs) " Pee-eeter once again !" 

Emily. Yes, sir ; but only once. I tell you what, you 
treat this terrible business with such levity that I am at a 
loss to understand you. You may have been false, but I 
could never have believed you would have been heartless. 

Turns aside. 

Fletcher. No, nobody ever said I was that. Here have 
I been waiting to explain. 

Emily. And here have / been, hardly opening my mouth 
and sayi?ig a word. 

Fletcher. He-hem ! 

Emily. Waiting /<?r an explanation — and — 

Fletcher. Yes! 

Emily, {severely) With the perfect knowledge that no 
explanation is possible. 

Fletcher. Now suppose I tell you a little story. 

Emily. Do. After so many big ones it'll be a novelty. 

Fletcher. Suppose I find an old friend in a scrape. 
Married in secret, unknown to the uncle on whom every- 
thing depends, and which uncle turning up unexpectedly it 
is found advisable to hoodwink by pretending the lady is my 
wife till the uncle's — 

Emily. Then why, tell me luhy, Peter Fletcher, you 
didn't explain all this before. 

Fletcher. You wouldn't allow me. 

Emily. You men always make such a mystery of every- 
thing. 

Fletcher. Come, Emily, you must see you've mis- 
judged me. Make it up. {Close by her, places his arm 
around her.) 

Emily. Ah ! it's all very well, but you don't know how 
very terrible it seemed. 

Fletcher, {affectionately) Make it up. 

Emily, {softened) Really, I— a — 

Fletcher. And I'll forgive you. 

Emily, {indignantly) What I 



36 UNCLE 

Fletcher. I mean we'll forgive each other. 

Emily, {melting) Peter, you were always so persuasive. 

Fletcher. Emily, most bewitching of — {Embraces 
her; as they do so Uncle Bootle enters abruptly , pauses, 
puts on his glasses. They don't observe him.) 

Fletcher, {preparing to go out with Emily) And now let 
me explain how it was my letters didn't reach you. What a 
neglectful ruffian you must have thought me ! 

- Emily. I did, dearest Peter. But, pray, don't let us come 
across that old Uncle Brutal, or whatever his name is. 

They exit affectionately. 

Uncle. Well, that's a pretty sort of a scoundrel, that is ! 
And the young woman — she's a nice piece of goods. Uncle 
Brutal ! Evidently an old flame of hers. Poor, dear, de- 
ceived, and ill-treated Mrs. Fletcher must know of this. 
Ha ! ha ! This is all a glorious example for Paul. I should 
think this will rather confirm my theory. 

Enter Mrs. Beaumont. 

Mrs. B. {aside) I suppose by this time Paul has confessed 
all. He said he would immediately, and appeal to his uncle's 
generosity. 

Uncle. Well, my dear madam, your husband's a pretty 
vagabond. 

Mrs. B. {aside) He knows all. Poor, dear Paul ! 

Uncle. I regret to have to say it, madam, but your hus- 
band is a deceiver and a scamp. 

Mrs. B. {passio?iately) O Mr. Bootle ! do, do forgive him. 
He — he couldn't help it. 

Uncle, {blankly) Oh ! a — he couldn't help it, couldn't he ? 

Mrs B. Pray, pray don't be severe with him. Think of 
the frailty of human nature. Oh ! pardon him for my sake, 
dear Mr. Boode ! 

Uncle, {aside) This is the most remarkable young woman 
I ever heard of. 

Mrs. B. And /was as much to blame. More to blame. 

Uncle. Well, I think you were rather weak-minded to 
let her enter the house, to come after him under your very 
nose. 

Mrs. B. {aside) The shock's shaken his senses. I told Paul 
not to be abrupt. 

Uncle. But that's no excuse for the way he went on with 
'her. 

Mrs. B. Who went on with whom f 



UNCLE 37 

Ungle. Your husband, of couse. If you'd been here a 
minute sooner you'd have seen it yourself 

Mrs. B. {aside) A horrible suspicion overcomes me. Can 
that young lady — 

Uncle. Young fiddlesticks ! Considering he's a married 
man, her behavior was simply atrocious. 

Mrs. B. I thought the story of inquiring about the house 
was suspicious. ( To him) You're sure you were not mis- 
taken ? 

Uncle. Not a bit of it. They took care there should be 
no mistake about it. 

Mrs. B. What did he do ? 

Uncle. What clidn't he do ? 

Mrs. B. Did he — a — {indicating an embrace). 

Uncle. Very much so. 

Mrs. B. {crossing) I'll never see him again ! 

Uncle. Quite right. 

Mrs. B. I'll have a separation ! 

Uncle. So you shall. 

Mrs. B. And that person shall not remain another mo- 
ment in my house. 

Uncle, {aside) Her house. Makes up her mind she's got 
it. A fine spirited little woman this. 

Mrs. B. Stay! It will be more dignified to leave him. 1 
will. I'll go and write him a letter — a letter that shall wring 
his very soul. 

Uncle. Do so ; and when you've done wringing his very 
soul ring the bell and I'll give it to him. 

Mrs. B. {tearfully) And we might have been so happy. 
We were so happy, except — except — when he put me out. 
And now to have to go back to mamma I 

Uncle. Awful! awful! 

Mrs. B. {turning on him) Not at all ! How dare you call 
going back to mamma awful ? Don't pity me, don't sympa- 
thize with me ! Don't speak to me ! Don't — a — oh ! 

Pushes him aside and exit. Uncle Bootle staggers hark 
on to sofa. 

Uncle. That's a very nice woman. Strong, too. I was 
jilted in early life by very much the same sort of superior 
article. Ha! ha! ha! But they don't do it «(?ze;. Not if you 
know it, eh, Barnaby Bootle, old boy ? {Goes up.) 

Enter Sarah. 

Sarah. What a lucky thing as I took away one of the 
door keys by mistake this morning. I lets myself in with 



38 UNCLE 

Cousing Haugustus, as is out of work, on strike, and enjoy- 
ing hisself quite quiet and comfortable. Shouldn V wonder 
if they was all out. Gone to the play, no wonder, so me 
and Haugustus can have our lobster down-stairs quite 
pleasant. (Uncle Bootle is examining the ornaments on 
the chimney-piece, turning them npside down, etc) Oh ! lor, 
who's that ? What a grubby-looking little old man ! Least- 
ways, to judge by his back. Counting the ornaments, too. 
Well, if I didn't always say it'd come to this. Any one 
who'd taken in the rude messages from the tradesmen and 
specially suffered hignomy from the baker would know as 
sooner or later it 7mist come to a man in possession. You 
can always tell one with half an eye. There's a reg'ler 
family look about 'em. I've seen many, and I knows 'em 
at a glance. He-hem ! (Uncle Bootle starts, and breaks 
china ornament) 

Uncle. What the — look here, what you've made me do 
whoever you are. 
— Sarah, {aside) Whai manners ! 

Uncle. I've smashed that china figure. 
• Sarah. Never mind — Fve fetched him one or two cracks 
before now. He's used to it. 

Uncle. You / Excuse me, but how did you come in ? 
I ask because this house, is, as it were, vii7te for the 
present. 

Sarah, {aside) His'n as it were! I knew I was right 
about him. ( To him) Well, you see, when I went out this 
morning I took the key away with me by accidents. 

Uncle. When you went out this morning? {Aside) 
Here's more of them. {To her) You'll excuse me, but there 
appear to be several reside^its in this house, but as yet I 
haven't come across anything in the shape of a servant. 

Sarah. No ! Ain't you seen old Grubbins ? 

Uncle Old Grubbins? No Who's he ? 

- Sarah. It's not a nim, it's a 7ier. She goes out cliairnig 
Uncle. Chairing ! Mending 'em ? 

- Sarah. No! The idea of j'^/^ " a man in possession.'" 
making believe not to know what chairing is ! 

Uncle, {aside) A man in possession ! Well, she's not 
altogether wrong. {To her) So, my dear, ha ! ha! I'm — I'm 
a man in possession, eh ? 

Sarah. Of course. And you looks it. 

Uncle, {aside) Hem ! And if I'm the man in possession 
{edging to her) ha! ha ! what — what ^x^you, eh — ^^eh ? 
-^ Sarah, {aside) They're all loving in their way, specially 
the old ones. 



UNCLE 39 

Uncle. Wha.t's your particular occupation here ? 

Sarah. Nothink ; I were 'ousemaid. {Aside) Gin'ral 
servant sounds so ungenteel. 

Uncle. Housemaid, eh ? 

Sarah. Yes. I left this morning-, and I've come to take 
away my box. 

Uncle. Oh ! indeed, and your name — 

Sarah. Sarah Jane Beanfieid, and no cause to dis- 
own it. 

Uncle. Now, between ourselves, Sarah Jane Beanfieid, 
I should like to learn a little about your master. 

Sarah. Which /a/e master is the word, please. 

Unx'lk. I beg your pardon. Late master. You mean 
he used to come in at all hours, I suppose. Door always 
left on the latch, I presume. 

Sarah. Latch ! Not it ! Catch missis allowing the door 
to be left on the latch ! 

Uncle. Missis ? Did I understand you to say missis ? 
W/ial missis ? IV/tose missis ? 

Sarah. Nobod3^'s, now I've left. 

Uncle, {excitedly) What do you mean ? 

Sarah, {aside) How he rolls his eyes ! It's a blessing 
Haugustus is in the yall. 

Uncle, {aside) There's something awful coming, I'm 
!ertain. {Taker) You don't mean to say that Mr. Beau- 
inont — your late master's — 

-"Sarah. Married! Ain't he, though. There ain't no 
more marrieder man in this neighborhood. 

Uncle, {aside) Let me be calm. ( 7b her) Where is the lady? 

Sarah. She were in when I left this morning. Probulay 
gone to the play. They're very fond of the play, though I 
know they pits it. 

Uncle. Was — is she anything like that / {Holding pho- 
tograph to her.) 
''•* Sarah. Like \ha.l\ That's 'er. 

Uncle. Mrs. 

- Sarah. Mrs. Beaumont, of course. 

Uncle. Then — who's — who's Fletcher?' 

Sarah. Who's Fletcher ? {Nudges him)' Go along with 
yen - Who's Griffiths r 

Uncle, {aside) An extraordinary, a horrible suspicion 
overwhelms me ! {Suddenly seizes Sarah violently by the 
arm, and brings her a little down) Woman ! Sarah Jane 
Cornfield. 

Sarah, {alarmed) Beanfieid ! Which also my cousing's 
in the yall. 



40 UNCLE 

Uncle. Cousin me no cousins ! Answer me, and answer 
me truly, Sarah Jane Brickfield — remember, your box is 
still on the premises, and, as the man in possession, I tell 
you you shall not remove that box until you have — {fiercely 
and hoarsely) — told 7ne more ! 

Sarah, {alarmed) You wouldn't keep back a poor 
girl's— 

Uncle. Keep back nothing from me then, Sarah Jane. 

Sarah, {quickly) Bean — 

Uncle, {quickly) Field ! Had these Beaumonts any re- 
lations ? 

Sarah. Yes, Mrs. Beaumont has a mar — and I've heard 
— quite accidental, because I'd scorn to listen — 

Uncle. Go on ! 

Sarah. I've heard as master had married unbeknown 
to his uncle abroad. 

Uncle, {ferociously) Ha ! ha ! 

Sarah. And his uncle must never know it, or he'd cut 
him off. 

Uncle. So he would. So he would. What did he say 
that uncle was like, eh, eh ? 

Sarah. Master said as he was a ugly little old feller as 
lived on 'ot pickles and curry powder, kep' his bed and 
couldn't see a hole through a sieve ! 

Uncle. Ha! ha! {Lets her go) For the first time for 
many a long 3^ear, Barnaby Bootle, you've been done. But 
tell me, ivho — who is Fletcher ? 

Sarah. I think I have heard his name mentioned, some 
old friend of master's. 

Uncle. Enough. Fetch your box. Stay ! Here's half- 
a-sovereign. Till you're off the premises hold your tongue. 

Sarah. I'll try to. {Aside) If he ain't the queerest 
man in possession /ever see. Catch me leaving the prem- 
ises. I'll git my box out, and then see what's a-going on. 
{Exit.) 

Uncle. Duped ! done ! tricked, befooled, and laughed 
at. Wait a bit, Paul Beaumont, and Mrs. Beaumont, too, 
and friendly but mendacious Fletcher also. Wait a bit, 
my tricksey trio. {Goes up and off.) 

Enter Mrs. Beaumont, followed by Beaumont, hastily. 

Mrs. B. This is a climax. Making love to this Miss 
Whatever-her-name-is. Oh ! 3'our uncle saw you. 

Beaumont. No, he didn't. For he couldn't. I don't 
know the lady's name even. 

Mrs. B. Rubbish ! The restaurant was bad enough. 



UNCLE 41 

Beaumont. Ma?iy of them are. 

Mrs. B. And the kicking at Twickenham, and — 

Beaumont. You are barking up the wrong tree. 

Mrs. B. Oh ! save your vulgar Americanisms for Miss 
Whatever-her-name-is. After confessing everything to 
your uncle. 

Beaumont. I haven't confessed a word. 

Mrs. B. You haven't confessed a word. After you said 
you'd go and confess at once ? Then he doesn't know ? 

Beaumont. Of course not. 

Mrs. B. Then my supposed husband — 

Beaumont. Was Fletcher, of course. Now don't you 
feel small ? 

Mrs. B. And he still- - 

Beaumont. Fancies you're Mrs. Fletcher, of course. 
And we must keep up the hideous deception till he leaves 
by the forty-five past nine. {Looks at watch) The fatal — I 
mean joyful hour approaches. 

Mrs. B. O Paul ! dear Paul — T suspected you wrong- 
fully. 

Beaumont, {injured) You're always doing so, Teresina. 

Mrs. B. Forgive me, Paul ; do please forgive me. 

Beaumont, {dignified) Hem! You may kiss me, Tere- 
sina. 

Mrs. B. Thank you, Paul. {Moves toward him) 

Enter Uncle Bootle. 

Uncle. Halloa ! halloa ! Interrupting a little tHe-h-tete, 
eh .? {Aside to Mrs. Beaumont) Quite right. ^\iovj your 
husbandj'^'^^ can do a little flirtation on your own account. 
Tit for tat. 

Enter Fletcher and Emily. Mrs. Beaumont goes to 
Emily and talks. 

Fletcher. Beaumont, your early peas are prime. 
Promise to be nearly as good as those at the green- 
grocer's, and I suppose not much more than double the 
price. 

Beaumont, {aside) What a cor^soling way Fletcher has 
with him. Well, Fletcher, nice place, isn't it ? {Aside to 
Fletcher)" Say it isn't. 

Fletcher. No, do;i't think so. 

Uncle. Jolly in the early morning, I should say. 

Beaumont, {aside to Fletcher) Say it's beastly. 

Fletcher. No, it's awfully misty and damp in the morn- 
ing. 



42 UNCLE 

Uncle. Why, I thought you only came to-day. 

Beaumont. Oh ! dear, no ; been here a week. He's 
quite right about the damp. 

Uncle. Well, I don't object to a little moisture after be- 
ing parched for years. Paul, old boy, I've made up my mind 
to stay. 

Beaumont. To stay — a — {All rather shonped.) 

Uncle. Yes. You're not deaf. To stay. You can put 
me anywhere. My night's rest's only a sham. I'm awake 
nearly all the time. And I walk about a good deal. Make 
up for it in the afternoon, you know. Habit — all habit. 

Turns aside ; the four others put their heads together, and in 
a low to7ie express their annoyance and difficulty. As 
Uncle Bootle cries ''Hem /" they all separate, and try 
to appear uncojicerned. 

Uncle, {aside) Barnaby Bootle. old boy, your turn's come 
now. 

Emily. But /can't stay ; Aunt Nabbs will wonder what's 
become of me. 

Fletcher. Oh ! I can see you to the train. You're only 
two stations off. It goes at forty-five minutes past nine, you 
said. 

Beaumont, {eagerly^ Yes, thoX'syour train, uncle. You'll 
all three go together. That'll be very pleasant, won't it ? 

Uncle, {aside to Mrs. Beaumont) You don't mean to say 
you'll let him take that young woman home ? 

Mrs. B. But he'll come back again. 

Beaumont, Oh! yes, don't you see, he'll come back 
again. 

Uncle, {aside to Beaumont) Of course he will ; but re- 
flect, his wife can't very well be left here — a — two bachelors 
like you and me, you know — appearances, you know. 

Beaumont. But you're going, too. 

Uncle. That would make it worse — hem ! Orie bachelor, 
{Grins^ 

Beaumont, {aside) If he grins like that I must hurt him. 

Uncle. But I'm not going. 

Beaumont, {shouts) We've nowhere to put you ! 

Uncle, {loudly) Then go and sleep out ! 

Beaumont. Besides, your watch is slow. Mine tells 
me it's thirty minutes past now. My watch hasn't varied 
a minute for forty years, and it's twenty minutes to the 
station, 

Emily, {to Fletcher) What will Aunt Nabbs say ? I 
must walk if there's no fly to be got. It's five miles, but 



UNCLE 43 

I'm not. afraid of a walk, especially in tlic cool of the even- 
ing. 

Fletcher. And I shall be with you, and the five miles 
won't seem iwo. {Aloud) Well, Teresina, I'd better see 
Miss Montrose to Upper Norwood. 

Mrs. B. Certainly, dear; of course, you must. 

Uncle. Nothing of the sort. Here, Paul, where 's your 
manners ? You must see the young lady home, of course. 
I insist upon it, and if the sky does look a little threatening, 
never mind — ril lend you. my overcoat. 

Beaumont, {aside) A tive-mile walk, and I suppose it's 
the same distance back. I can tell by my favorite corn it's 
going to be a pouring night. And that fascinating black- 
guard, Fletcher, left — a — 

Uncle, You'd better start at once. Mr. and Mrs. 
Fletcher and self will have a game at whist. I'll take 
dummy ; you needn't bother about the key. /'// sit up for 
you. 

Moves aside, talking to Mrs. Beaumont. 

Beaumont, {to Fletcher and Emily, excitedly, aside. 
To Emily) You mustn't go. Nobody must go. You must 
send a messsage to your Aunt Nabbs, saying you find Mrs. 
Beaumont an old school-fellow, and you're going to stay to- 
night. 

Fletcher. But who's to take it ? 

Beaumont. Yoii, Fletcher, you. You're a pedestrian, / 
am 7iot. 

Fletcher. Well, I can't desert you, Paul ; I — a — wait a 
minute. 

Exits, abruptly. 

Beaumont, {to Uncle) Fletcher's insisted on going him- 
self, and this young lady, old school-fellow of— a— 

Uncle. But he'll do the walk there and back in little 
over two hours. We'll all sit up for him. {Talks aside to 
Emily.) 

Beaumont, {aside to Mrs. Beaumont. Melodramatically) 
The awful hour has come. You must leave me with him. 
I must confess all and trust to his better nature. India has 
absorbed his liver but possibly left him a remnant of heart. 
If he turns his back upon us — 

Mrs. B. {cheerfully) Even that is preferable to the front 
view. 

Beaumont, {grasping her ha?rd) Bless you, Teresina, 
bless you. 



44 UMCLE 

Emily, {aside) I wonder where Peter is. 

Mrs. B. {aside to her) I hear him talking to some one in 
the hall. Let's leave uncle and nephew together, there'll 
be such a scene. 

Emily. I declare I'm so bewildered, I — a — where is 
Peter ? ( They exit quickly) 

Uncle aiid Nephew are on opposite sides. The Uncle has 
his back to Beaumont — looking at book of photographs. 

Uncle. Pretty collection of beauties you've got here, 
only fools are photographed. Bah ! A conspiracy between 
nature and art to show you up. 

Beaumont, {after a?i effort grasps his Uncle's arm and 
brings him forward) Uncle — dear uncle. 

Uncle. HuUoa ! 

Beaumont. Uncle Bootle, the time has arrived when I 
feel I can no longer conceal from you a terrible and painful 
fact. 

Uncle {aside) Ha ! )ia! I knew it must come. 

Beaumont. Before condemning the accused unheard, 
listen to the few feverish sentences that rise, despite my 
better judgment, to my — a — a — 

Uncle. Lips. 

Beaumont. Thank you, lips. And picture to yourself 
the position of a man who meeting by accident his destiny, 
I say his inevitable destiny, at Margate — 

Uncle. Rubbish ! Destinies don't go to Margate. 

Beaumont. This particular destiny did. Picture to your- 
self a young couple, single-souled, heart free, romantic, en- 
thusiastic — with similar tastes. 

Uncle. Just so — both fond of shrimps. No novelty that. 

Beaumont. Sharing the same aspirations, knowing no 
pleasure apart {rhapsodically), wretched asunder — happy 
only when side by side, dreaming of the indefinite, and 
dimly realizing the impossible ! 

Uncle. Very nice way of getting through the time. 
Almost as jolly as driving over to Pegwell Bay. 

Beaumont. Uncle — Uncle Bootle — you — you have no 
romance. 

Uncle, {walkiiig up) Haven't I ? Haven't I, Paul Beau- 
mont? Do you think /—in early life — didn't know what it 
was to be dazed — to dream and doubt and be deceived ! 
Do you think because >ou see me here a dried-up old pep- 
per-box, a dilapidated jar of preserved ginger — a valetudi- 
narian Chili — a superannuated mass of mulligatawney ! No, 
sir. /once had aspirati6ns7-I once had hopes of happi- 



UNCLE 



45 



ness, but they were doomed to be dashed to the ground, 
even as the priceless blue china of the cormorant-like col- 
lector falls into fragments from the careless clutch of the 
neglectful housemaid. {Blows his nose violently}) 

Beaumont, {aside) He has a heart. I will get at it, but 
not direct— the route must be via Fletcher. ( To him) Uncle 
—you — you have seen the young couple who are domiciled 
for the day or so beneath this roof I blush down to my 
heels as I think of the deception — 

Uncle. What — what do you mean, sir ? Not a word 
against that young woman. I admire her, I respect her, 
and — and — 

Beaumont. And she is not Fletcher's wife. 

Uncle si aggers back. 

Beaumoxt. {aside) Ruat coelum ! That's, to say, if the 
ceiling likes to come down, let it. 

Uncle. Not— not Fletcher's wife ? 

Beaumont. No, sir. 

Uncle. No, sir ! Oh ! sir ! SO, sir ! You knowing my 
severely moral principles have — 

Beaumont. Dear uncle, it was to save those very identi- 
cal high-pressure extra double distilled moral principles a 
shock that I was induced to represent Fletcher as the hus- 
band of my — I mean his — I mean as married. Knowing 
that finding a young lady and a young gentleman on fa- 
miliar terms in another person's house might irritate your 
severely sensitive cuticle, we concocted this innocent de- 
ception, hoping — I mean thinking — your visit would only 
be for an hour or two. Don't glare so, Uncle Bootle — please 
don't glare so ! {Aside) He's sure to go now, and I can 
send him the rest by post. 

Uncle, {not rmpleasantly) Now, hang me if I haven't sus- 
pected this all along. 

Beaumont, (^^/z;^/^/^^) You have ! {Aside) He doesn't 
glare ! He has found us out, and will forgive us. 

Uncle. You have accused me of a want of romance. 
Nothing of the kind ; I'm full of it. It would have engulfed 
and swamped me, had I not enveloped myself in an anti- 
matrimonial crust. But you will see I have still the feelings 
of youth. Mrs. Fletcher is 7iot Mrs. Fletcher. From the 
first moment I met her, I felt fascinated. I'm positively 
certain she's struck with me. I'll propose to her this even- 
ing, and if she accepts me, I'll marry her to-morrow, 

Beaumont. You don't know what you're talking 
about ? 



46 UNCLE 

Uncle. She will. 1 can settle a hundred thousand upon 
any woman I make Mrs. Bootle I 

Beaumont. But what's to becom.e oimef 

Uncle. Assist me, and you sha'n't suffer. Thwart me, 
and I'll cut you off with a shilling — yes, sir, a shilling, and 
not free of legacy duty. Don't .say a word. I'll put the 
matter before her eyes at once. Don't stare. Do you 
think I'm a hundred ? Sixty-seven next birthday, and was 
taken for forty-six only last Saturday. Forty-SL\. sir, and 
when my back's to the light I don't look that ! {Exit.) 

Beaumont. There's nothing for us l)ut to fly — the lot of 
us, and lock this old lunatic up in the house. I certainly — 
{sees Sarah, who eiders) Halloa ! What the deuce do iw^ 
want ? 
— * Sarah. Haugustus, my cousing, which I left him in the 
yall, and he have vanished. And hoping bye-gones will be 
bye-gones, I mu.st say as I'm sorry to see you've got a man 
in possession. 

Beaumont. What do you mean ? 
_— Sarah. And a essentric party he is, and very pleasant; 
we could have got on together, if I'd stayed. 

Beaumont, {seizing her) Sarah ! Again, what do you 
mean ! That little old gentleman's my uncle. What have 
you been saying to him ? 
•^"' Sarah. Your uncle! O heavens! then I've told him 
all! 

Beaumont. All what, you miserable maid-of-all-work.? 
^- Sarah. All about your being married and being afraid 
of your uncle, and your saying he lived on curry and hot 
pickles, and a sieve was too much for his eyesight. 

Beaumont. Wretched w^oman ! I said a cullender. Ha ! 
ha ! ha ! And in the teeth of this he wants to marry his 
niece-in-law. No! no! no! I see it all! He's playing with 
me, torturing me. and it serves me right. {T^ij-ns fiercely 
onSxKhW, ivhojujnps back) Sarah! You have ruined me. 
You have destroyed the hopes of — 

Enter Uncle ivith Mrs. Beaumont on his arm, Emily and 
Fletcher at another entrance. 

Uncle. It's all right, my boy, she's accepted me. 

Beaumont, {livid) Old man! I have every respect for 
your gray hairs — at least I should have if you had any — in 
your absence I revere that bald but boldly developed brow. 
But, Uncle Boot'e— I must— 

Fletcher, {jerks him roinid to himself sharply. Beau- 
jMONT nearly losing his balance) It's all right. The long 



UNCLE 47 

party in the hall has gone with the letter to Aunt Xabbs. 
Everything's smooth enough at last. {Slaps him on the 
back.) 

Emily. Yes, Mr. Beaumont, and though your wife and I 
are noi old school-fellows I trust we shall always be the 
best of friends, in fact we're quite fond of each other, are 
we not, dear ? 

Mrs. B. Oh ! very much so indeed, love. ( 7 hey talk 
aside.) 

Fletcher and Beaumont are in the front a little apart. 

Beaumont. Fletcher, will you oblige me by explaining .? 

Uncle, {coming between them and taking each of their 
arms) Suppose we none us us explain anything. You've 
behaved very badly, my boy, but I'm not the old monster 
you imagine. You've suffered sufficiently in a small way. 
Take my advice, be open for the future. Fletcher, don't 
you flirt so much ; it's bad for your complexion. Teresina, 
my dear, look to little temper. Miss Emily — that's yoiir 
department. ( 71:? Fletcher) Suppose somebody suggests 
supper. 

' Sarah. Which excuse me, but I can't go home without 
my cousing's pertection. so — 

Mrs. B. So you'd better stay, Sarah. 
— Sarah. And if so be as a lobster, purchased permiscous, 
and biled recent, would be acceptable, here's one as 
Haugustus has left in the yall as him and me were going to 
have for supper. 

Beaumont. Good. I hope he hasn't been sitting on it 
much. 

Uncle, {taking it) I haven't looked a lobster in the face 
for years. 

Beaumont. Well, never mind, let bye-gones be bye- 
gones and have supper, at vvhich, if you will only give us 
the pleasant sauce of your approval, I don't care how often 
I commit matrimony and risk the remorseless rancour of 
dear old 

"UNCLE" 



CURTAIN 



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